


Lightning

by twowritehands



Series: Destiel [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Cas, Booty Call, Bottom Dean, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean calls Cas down out of Heaven for sexy times. Things get a lot more serious than he anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> New to the fandom, have been binge watching on Netflix. Jotted this down early on probably right around the time Castiel started being so unbearably adorable.

When Sam says he’ll be out for the night, it means he has found a girl that likes to casually bone long-haired, bitch-faced giants. It means Dean will have the motel room to himself for the whole night. When Sam smirks at him as he leaves, it means _you should get a girl, too_ , _man_. Sometimes Dean does. Most times Dean doesn’t.

Lately he ends up pacing.

He tells himself he won’t.

He tells himself not again.

He tells himself it was a mistake last time.

It meant nothing last time.

A girl would be a _much_ better idea this time…

_Just some random chick, Winchester. Find one, make her feel the power of her sexuality, get it all out of your system, and leave her with respect and dignity._

But he never listens to himself. Not anymore. It’s a habit by now, you see. An addiction.

It does not happen often. Hell, it’s been months since last time. Because it only happens when there is _opportunity_. Like now. He locks the door, makes sure the curtains are drawn. Still in denial, still insisting he’s not doing it, he showers. He tidies up to stall or to calm his nerves. He continues to pretend he’s just going to go to bed. He always pretends. Right up until the last second. That way he doesn’t have to face it.

In bed, the lights out, Dean tosses and turns and his heart rate is climbing. His body starts to feel that delicious tension, the anxiety, the promise of giving in… surrendering…

He closes his eyes, “Cas,” he calls.

That’s all it takes. Without a sound, Cas is there. Dean doesn’t have his eyes open, it’s still dark even if he does, but he knows he isn’t alone anymore. Cas does not speak, and the room feels like a brewing thunderstorm, caked in dense clouds of negative ions and the crisp scent of ozone wafting from Cas’ skin. Dean knows what that means.

It means Cas knows why he has been called, and he is already excited. Dean shifts anxiously, his filling cock dragging on the sheets. He almost _keens_.

Get it together, man.

Weight settles on the edge of the bed. A hand drops on his quilted knee. Dean bites his lip. “Hey,” he whispers, tortured, into the dark. He hates himself, but already the sweetness of surrender is pulling him under.

“Dean,” the angel rasps softly in greeting. They could be casually running into each other at a freaking library.

In the dark, Dean’s brows are lowered and his voice is husky, he’s trying to be casual but he’s failing. In the dark, his question sounds every bit as not casual as it should considering the genius choice of words. “Are you super busy in heaven right now?”

 _Super busy_?

The hand on his knee starts to travel up his thigh and Dean’s already shallow breathing hitches. Cas’ answer is without flourish, “No,” but maybe that’s a smile in the tone.

He never is. Not for this.

Cas’ hand finds the tent in the sheets and palms it. Dean bucks his hips into the welcome pressure and shudders.

There is no more talking. The trench coat pools on the floor, a tie and a jacket with it. Shined shoes are kicked off, and trousers looped with a belt fall over them.

An angel gets in bed with Dean wearing socks, briefs and a button down shirt.

He smells like rain, and tastes like it, too. His hands are soft, his chin is prickly. His tongue is cool and fresh when it delves into Dean’s mouth. He’s straddling Dean for now and under Dean’s hands, his thighs are thicker than his scrawny frame would suggest, furry with course hair.

Dean’s tee goes over his head, the blankets go over the end of the bed in a heap and Dean’s underwear doesn’t make it past one ankle. All but one pillow are tossed. That one goes under Dean’s lower back. Together they work open Cas’ buttons. His chest has hair to match his thighs, and his nipples are tight, hard little peaks, salty against Dean’s tongue.

The shirt stays on, as do the socks. The elastic of the briefs is shoved down out of the way just enough. Dean is gone by now, lost in it. His whole world shrinks to include nothing but what he wants, where he wants it and how: Cas, inside, intense and slow.

The darkness swirls with heat and skin, body hair and breath. The motel room bed creaks under their weight. Cas, the angel of the lord, so pristine, so calm, gives a few grunts and moans, and in those sounds is just another man, a mortal popping open at his seams thread by thread as his beard scrapes against Dean’s, their fingers lock against the mattress above the hunter’s head, and their bodies join.

Dean opens easily; Cas can start with two fingers in a slow, deep push. Dean just takes a deep breath and it is like wings lift him over any pain. Cas adds a finger, scissors, and twists them out, then slides his cock in. Dean relishes in the heat of it, the power of a stretch which comes after so little preparation. Cas kisses him through the adjustment and then he is moving with steady fervor. Cas can start like he's right in the middle and hold there forever. 

It’s everything Dean has needed. The emptiness inside is burned away by the heat of Cas’ body against and inside him, his breath rushing over Dean’s neck. The vacant lot in his chest where loneliness crouched with rapid shallow breathing erupts into teeming life and white light, blue eyes so fucking blue, and the monster is frightened away by a single broken, rasping whisper against his ear, “Dean.”

More. Dean needs more of Cas like lungs need more oxygen during suffocation. He sobs and keens and holds Cas tighter, nails biting in, and the angel’s teeth clamp down deliciously on Dean’s neck, rhythm building in pace and intensity. It’s like falling upwards, a fast swift rush towards breathless heights. Dean and Cas connect in the climb, fit together in the torn open places, angel bleeding into man bleeding into angel.

Slick skin on skin, slap of flesh, worn-out springs creaking, headboard thumping on the wall, and husky broken vowels: they don’t hear the sounds of their union because it’s them; they are inside of it, burning bright and falling high and growing in, in towards each other deeper and deeper.

They don’t see themselves, either: Dean on his back, knees to his chest, feet in the air with underwear hanging from one ankle, ass high on a pillow, thighs splayed wide, Cas between them still mostly in his briefs, open shirt sticking damp to his shoulder blades, hips driving into Dean with intense focus, holding Dean’s hand above his head and fisting the sheets with the other, so missionary.

They don’t hear it, or see it. And they don’t realize yet, that they aren’t alone in this, that when they are apart the other one misses this just as much. They think they have a secret from each other, the secret of how much they really care. They both consider it a problem that they will quietly and casually deal with until it goes away. They think they can survive this even as it kills them beautifully.

Dean breaks first, a hot drowning burst of a dam, he chokes and sobs, tense muscles shivering under his skin. When Cas comes straight after, the darkness lights up in a flash, a soft crackle through the air, harmless static electricity from the heavy negative ions, which had poured from him like sweat, leaping to join with the lighter positives up around the ceiling. The flash illuminates the room and, for a moment, just a moment, in that briefest glimmer, they both see it. They both _see_ in their hearts that this is it. This is really it. There is no more than this.

Immediately they both _think_ they saw it, and then doubt they saw anything at all and then deny it altogether, for the sake of self-preservation.

They peel apart, the lights come on, they clean up and dress, and with a prompting question from Dean about the lightning, Cas explains how being in a human sized vessel and joining with another human mutes the experience. “The effect is much more brilliant when two angels in true form join. It would be deadly for humans, true bolts of lightning so hot they could burn a city down.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow with a teasing smirk that asks _how would you know_? And the angel blushes, “or so I’ve been informed by my brothers.”

“You should get out there, Cas,” Dean succeeds in sounding casual, much easier to do when they both have their clothes on, “Don’t hold yourself back. Enjoy what God gave you. I mean, for something like you that’s supposed to have sex on multiple dimensions all at once with, like, fire balls zooming around, cramming yourself into a sweaty human body and stemming the rose in a cheap motel with a condom has got to be a joke for you, right?”

Cas looks stricken, “Is it a joke to _you_?”

“No,” Dean assures at once, a laugh of surprise, “No, Cas, this is as good as it gets for me--“ he falters here, remembering what he saw in the lightning, knowing his words are hitting _way_ too close to that hidden truth, and clears his throat, focuses on getting his boots on the right feet, “but it’s holding you back, so…You know. Get some angel tail already.”

Cas is looking at Dean, and it is in his eyes that he knows how close those words are to the truth, and Dean hates himself because he walked into this trap. It might as well be a freaking symbol on the floor, because he walked right into it and can’t get back out.

“It’s not a joke to me,” Cas says softly, eyes falling to the floor.

Dean’s chest is tight. He had to go and mention the thing they don’t mention and now they are _talking_ about it.

_Way to go, Winchester, should have just found a girl for the night._

“You just don’t know what you’re missing,” Dean insisted, “I’m sure once you shoot a few bolts with your own kind you’ll look back at this and see it’s just skimming the surface. This isn’t your full potential, Cas. You were made for more.”

“You do not know for what purpose I was made,” Cas condescends firmly.

“You’re an angel,” Dean growls, “You bow and scrape and serve. Yada yada yada. Yeah, save it. I’ve heard the damn speech. But I promise you this, Cas, you were also made to come so hard you think you’re eyes are bleeding.”

Cas smiles at this, and it makes Dean smile, too, but he keeps going with his point, clinging to the seriousness of the topic, “A thing like you can’t do that when you only got one dimension to work with and you know it.”

Cas looks at Dean with narrowed blue eyes, a challenging tilt in his head, “You are so sure of yourself, Dean. But why shouldn’t you be? Humans are made to breed. Physical ecstasy is the pinnacle of your physical existence. But there is so much more to you than that, and most of you do not even realize it. You walk around thinking of yourself as bodies that have souls, forgetting you are actually souls that have bodies.”

“What the hell is your point, Cas? Get to it.”

“Angels are not made to _breed_ ,” Cas rumbles, “We are made to serve, yes--but also to nourish our souls. We crave more than mere physical pleasure. Our ecstasy is not in ejaculation, it is in making _love_ and that’s what--“ he cuts off abruptly, looks scared, and turns away.

 _That’s what I do with you_.

It is not a flash in the room anymore. It is present. It is a loud, _heavy_ thing--a freggin elephant--suspended in the space between them. The weight of it is astounding. Dean can’t breathe. His skin is alive with a million peaks, small hairs on end, heart ramming rapidly against his breast plate. His eyes prick sharply.

Cas stands with his arms at his sides, facing Dean but looking away and down, unmoving.

Dean doesn’t know what to do. Smile. Cry. Grab Cas and kiss him. Hit him in the stupid face. Run. Curl up and die. Dance. Shout. Straddle Cas and ride him until the stars fall. Laugh.

In Dean’ chest, in the vibrant green garden that was once the home of a deformed unlovable monster called Alone, a hopeful boy lifts his head from his knees, no longer feeling scared, and whispers, _for real_?

Under Dean’s unwavering gaze, Cas finally lifts his eyes from the floor. He does so slowly, his whole frame held timidly, his eyes burning with apology and truth, _yes_ , they say, _is that alright_?

“Cas--“ Dean starts, and it’s a sound so gruff it’s only context clues which makes it sound like the angel’s nickname, but in that same second, the motel room door opens.

Sam barges in, huge, and stopping in his tracks. He has a greasy bag and coffee in each hand. “Cas!”

“Sam,” the angel says, tearing his eyes from Dean to give the giant as much of a welcome as ever. Dean wishes he could still kick Sam’s ass as easily as he could when they were kids.

“Sam?” Dean growls, “Thought you were with a girl?”

Sam smirks at him, “I was but I’m not _marrying_ her, Dean. We got what we wanted and parted ways. It’s fine.” He looks at the angel a little guiltily, then, eyes shifting nervously as he tends to do ever since the whole demon blood thing, “What’s up?”

Cas does not answer. He looks to Dean to do the honors.

“Touching base,” Dean says. Cas narrows his eyes at him, but then looks at Sam and nods.

Sam is frowning between them, reading the energy and not understanding it. His nostrils flare as he sniffs the air, “Is that ozone?”

“I must go now,” Cas says looking up towards the heavens, “My brothers need me.”

“Ok well--“ Dean starts but in that second the angel is gone, and Dean huffs in offense, “Be careful, I guess. Whatever.”

“That was weird.”

“Man, when is Cas NOT weird?” Dean jokes, and plucks up the bag of food from the table. He rifles through and finds the pie missing. Conversation is successfully diverted from there by some brotherly banter and then Sam gets right down to business regarding the vengeful spirit they are after.

Dean isn’t really listening.


End file.
